the glamor this old man had still seen me.
Mika slipped past me toward the man's spice-laden tables.
A crash reverberated from the stall, and red and yellow
powder surged out and engulfed us. The old man shrieked and turned his
horrified attention back to his wasted spices. The woman who'd fought with him
stepped back, covered in spice-dust, and launched into a sneezing fit. Between
multiple violent sneezes, she screamed more obscenities at him, her eyes
obscured by a film of tears as her nose protested over and over again.
The poor man ignored her and just wailed at the mess and the
loss of his wares. Mika snuck out of the stall and tugged me away.
"You didn't have to do that."
She shrugged. "Did you wish me to allow him to touch
you? To know that something strange was happening in the souk?"
"No, but you could have found some other way to distract
him," I said. As Mika manhandled me away, I glanced back over my shoulder.
The spice vendor's shoulders slumped as he stared at his ruined stall.
"You've destroyed his livelihood."
"Ha. That was one tiny bit of his wares, Bryn. It was
just half a dozen bowls of spices, not his entire warehouse." Mika shook
her head. "For a Midgardian you are very naive."
I jerked my sleeve from her grasp and glared at her. What
the hell did she mean by calling me naïve? But before I could confront her, we
ran into Fen.
"What's the problem?" he asked, his forehead a
field of furrows.
"Some guy bumped into me," I snapped. I heard the
belligerent tone in my voice. Too late to retract it. "Mika had to create
a distraction."
"It is fine now. The man is otherwise occupied,"
said Mika.
"Yeah. Otherwise occupied with the destruction of his
property." I glared at her.
Fen watched the interplay, saying nothing. He glanced beyond
us at the stall, where the disturbance had drawn a small crowd.
"Let us go. We do not have the time to waste." He
turned on his heel, and we had no choice but to move fast and follow him.
Fen led us up two steps into a small alleyway, still lined
with hawkers. He took the stone steps in a single stride. As I climbed the
step, I noted the crumbling edges and the erosion, aware and slightly awed that
this place went back into history; we walked the same road as the ancient
Egyptians, our feet sharing the same dust and the heat as the sweat-ridden
pyramid builders, the harried slaves of the long-dead Pharaohs and fervent
worshippers of mighty gods like Ra and Isis. I may have been a real living
breathing Valkyrie, but I still reveled in the wonder and amazement of what the
world—Midgard—had to offer.
I inhaled the richness of grilled meats and the warm
freshness of mint tea as Fen threaded his way through the busy little street,
and I tried to keep up.
Good thing I didn't blink.
Fen made a sudden, sharp left into a small shop, identical
at first glance to every other little stand on the street, except for the
product they offered. The stall was heavy with carpets. Rugs hung from the
ceiling above us and covered the walls around us, displaying a multitude of
designs in rich gold and deep reds. A skinny, cramped passage snaked between
piles of rugs and mats stacked in towers and little heaps, some neat and tidy,
others threatening to tip over if you so much as breathed beside them.
The stall seemed way too tiny for the whole team to fit
within its confines, but we all managed to edge inside. Fen approached a thin,
tall man encased in a long, white, traditional kaftan, bent low over a stack of
Hessian-wrapped carpets, coarse black curls sticking up around his fez. We
lurked close to the entrance as Fen and the man spoke, the grumble of their
words low and unintelligible. We remained alert, our eyes flitting from
passersby to the carpet-seller, ready for anything.
When the two men ended their conversation, Fen beckoned us
with a swift flick of his fingers. I glanced at the team behind me, at Joshua
and Aimee, who stood, arms linked, the epitome of a tourist couple,
Mika slipped past me toward the man's spice-laden tables.
A crash reverberated from the stall, and red and yellow
powder surged out and engulfed us. The old man shrieked and turned his
horrified attention back to his wasted spices. The woman who'd fought with him
stepped back, covered in spice-dust, and launched into a sneezing fit. Between
multiple violent sneezes, she screamed more obscenities at him, her eyes
obscured by a film of tears as her nose protested over and over again.
The poor man ignored her and just wailed at the mess and the
loss of his wares. Mika snuck out of the stall and tugged me away.
"You didn't have to do that."
She shrugged. "Did you wish me to allow him to touch
you? To know that something strange was happening in the souk?"
"No, but you could have found some other way to distract
him," I said. As Mika manhandled me away, I glanced back over my shoulder.
The spice vendor's shoulders slumped as he stared at his ruined stall.
"You've destroyed his livelihood."
"Ha. That was one tiny bit of his wares, Bryn. It was
just half a dozen bowls of spices, not his entire warehouse." Mika shook
her head. "For a Midgardian you are very naive."
I jerked my sleeve from her grasp and glared at her. What
the hell did she mean by calling me naïve? But before I could confront her, we
ran into Fen.
"What's the problem?" he asked, his forehead a
field of furrows.
"Some guy bumped into me," I snapped. I heard the
belligerent tone in my voice. Too late to retract it. "Mika had to create
a distraction."
"It is fine now. The man is otherwise occupied,"
said Mika.
"Yeah. Otherwise occupied with the destruction of his
property." I glared at her.
Fen watched the interplay, saying nothing. He glanced beyond
us at the stall, where the disturbance had drawn a small crowd.
"Let us go. We do not have the time to waste." He
turned on his heel, and we had no choice but to move fast and follow him.
Fen led us up two steps into a small alleyway, still lined
with hawkers. He took the stone steps in a single stride. As I climbed the
step, I noted the crumbling edges and the erosion, aware and slightly awed that
this place went back into history; we walked the same road as the ancient
Egyptians, our feet sharing the same dust and the heat as the sweat-ridden
pyramid builders, the harried slaves of the long-dead Pharaohs and fervent
worshippers of mighty gods like Ra and Isis. I may have been a real living
breathing Valkyrie, but I still reveled in the wonder and amazement of what the
world—Midgard—had to offer.
I inhaled the richness of grilled meats and the warm
freshness of mint tea as Fen threaded his way through the busy little street,
and I tried to keep up.
Good thing I didn't blink.
Fen made a sudden, sharp left into a small shop, identical
at first glance to every other little stand on the street, except for the
product they offered. The stall was heavy with carpets. Rugs hung from the
ceiling above us and covered the walls around us, displaying a multitude of
designs in rich gold and deep reds. A skinny, cramped passage snaked between
piles of rugs and mats stacked in towers and little heaps, some neat and tidy,
others threatening to tip over if you so much as breathed beside them.
The stall seemed way too tiny for the whole team to fit
within its confines, but we all managed to edge inside. Fen approached a thin,
tall man encased in a long, white, traditional kaftan, bent low over a stack of
Hessian-wrapped carpets, coarse black curls sticking up around his fez. We
lurked close to the entrance as Fen and the man spoke, the grumble of their
words low and unintelligible. We remained alert, our eyes flitting from
passersby to the carpet-seller, ready for anything.
When the two men ended their conversation, Fen beckoned us
with a swift flick of his fingers. I glanced at the team behind me, at Joshua
and Aimee, who stood, arms linked, the epitome of a tourist couple,
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